


personal spaces

by spiritscript



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, Sakusa Kiyoomi-centric, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26257300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritscript/pseuds/spiritscript
Summary: He has a way of easily, unintentionally, almost physically filling a room. When he moves, he’s followed by continuous images of himself that demand space. Ghosts of transparent Atsumus become suspended in motion, frozen in place. When he walks, these fictitious fragments trail after him and remain long after their creator is gone. They look like the luminescent lines of light reflected in water. They linger like the hazy heat of a summer day.How Sakusa Kiyoomi comes to understand the spaces Miya Atsumu inhabits in his life.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 42
Kudos: 367
Collections: Behold the Sacred Texts





	personal spaces

Sakusa Kiyoomi understands the concept of people being ‘larger than life’, or having a personality that can ‘fill a room’. He sees the way his teammates leap through life, infecting people with their presence, but it always feels superficial, like a momentary thing occurring only while they are also in attendance. 

Atsumu though… Atsumu redefines the concept; shapes it into something entirely new and foreign all at once. 

He has a way of easily, unintentionally, almost physically filling a room. When he moves, he’s followed by continuous images of himself that demand space. Ghosts of transparent Atsumus become suspended in motion, frozen in place. When he walks, these fictitious fragments trail after him and remain long after their creator is gone. They look like the luminescent lines of light reflected in water. They linger like the hazy heat of a summer day.

He is the one exception.

Kiyoomi has never been one of those people. He doesn’t mind it though, he takes up the space he needs, demands a little bit more, but leaves nothing behind. He finishes projects and moves on. He enters a place and exits again and he is entirely happy in this, proud of it almost. 

If humans were fragrances, Kiyoomi feels he is the fresh scent of lemongrass, simple, one dimensional, and easily replaced. Atsumu is the lingering aroma of vanilla and cinnamon that seeps out of cooking dough and wafts along hallways, embedding itself into clothes and curtains and memories.

“Omi?” he says one day, hesitating on the parameters of Sakusa’s unofficial, claimed space, the words poking and prickling; testing. “Wouldja mind looking over some game tapes with me?”

“Why?” Kiyoomi replies a little confused, not pausing in his motions; folding the used towel, placing it in a plastic bag and into his gym bag, ensuring all traces of him are packed and put away. The rest of the team had gone on ahead, with just Atsumu lingering behind.

One of his shoulders rises slightly before falling again, “I need someone to give it straight and ‘Samu’s too busy. Not that he doesn’t lie through his teeth saying I’m an idiot, or couldn’t pull offa set all the time.” He grins then, and Kiyoomi’s senses heighten as it washes over him.

ｘ

Another day, Atsumu sits on the small stool by the breakfast bar in Kiyoomi’s apartment, spinning himself purposefully. When he sees Kiyoomi, he makes a show of changing his expression dramatically on each turn. Spin. A huge grin. Spin. A frown. Spin. An exaggerated wink. Spin. An open mouth and lazy tongue. Spin.

Kiyoomi walks to the counter, his back now to the other man, but he can still hear the gentle rhythmic thud of his hand on the counter every few seconds. He still feels the way Atsumu spills out from himself onto the floor below him, and he senses the way he throws and splatters himself onto the walls around him with each turn.

Kiyoomi never could pinpoint when exactly Atsumu had begun to lazily slide into his space and take root, but it had become evident in the ghost of eyes trailing his skin; the echoes of that too loud laugh; the tacky Disney Land Tokyo mug perched in its nest among Kiyoomi’s carefully placed white ones; in the small carton of cows milk in his fridge.

“Whatcha mean ya don’t have milk?” A memory of Atsumu asks, staring almost angrily into Kiyoomi’s fridge. This was an old one, a memory from the first time Kiyoomi had made them coffee, yet it was still so clear, so tangible.

“I use oat milk,” he had replied.

“Oat... milk,” he had glanced at Atsumu, who started doing something with his fingers, pushing his thumb and forefinger together. In a whisper full of childish curiosity, filled with wonder and confusion, the spectre asks him over and over again, “how do you milk oats?” 

ｘ

Some of the things Miya Atsumu does reverberate more than others. One of those things is that, when he does something wrong or that he shouldn’t do, he pulls a particular face. It isn’t the face of someone who is caught doing wrong, it isn’t fear nor annoyance at being caught. It is pure, unadulterated, bashful glee. His eyes are sheepish and sweet, as if butter wouldn’t melt, but a slow grin will spread across his face and it will crawl over skin, seep in through pores, and unfurl itself in veins. So innocent, so murderous. Though it is a paradox, Kiyoomi had learned that you couldn’t always find answers when the question was Atsumu. 

He once told Kiyoomi that he thought he had developed it as a way of charming people into not being angry at him. As a child, teachers and babysitters would see that timid, charming smile and coo at just how sweet he was, tutting something about ‘boys being boys’ and that ‘no real harm was done.’ His brother would stare daggers at him from afar when this happened. They both knew what he was doing.

It then became instinct that he hid his abrasive and sometimes rude nature behind that sugary sweet, rot-your-teeth smile.

In it, Kiyoomi often wonders if he could drown, or dissipate.

“You gonna invite me in Omi Omi?” he asks now as Kiyoomi opens the door to that grin and all that trouble.

As always when near him, Kiyoomi becomes hyper aware of his own body, of how much space he himself claims. “You always come in anyway, I think an invite would actually scare you off,” he replies, moving out of the way and opening the door just a little bit more as Atsumu begins to enter.

“True.” The other man replies. “I’m like a reverse vampire I guess.”

He walks into Kiyoomi’s home with all the confidence of a man on conquered land, brushing Kiyoomi’s shoulder with his own, ever so gently.

Kiyoomi’s skin tingles from where they’d made contact, as if the parts Atsumu had left behind on him were poking and prickling, testing how solid the physical Kiyoomi was, how much he could infect him; take him over; consume him.

ｘ

In Kiyoomi’s own apartment, there are innumerable Atsumus. 

He walks to the sink, wets his hands, pumps some soap, and begins to wash. 

He walks to the kettle, flicks the switch. 

He deliberately reaches into a cupboard and pulls out his mug, and one for Kiyoomi. 

Closes the cupboard. 

He sits legs swinging, head in his hands as Kiyoomi makes them cappuccinos, or lattes, or mochas, or tea, sometimes hot chocolate. 

He nestles himself in a blanket in the corner of Kiyoomi’s sofa.

He bounces around the halls.

He sits on the floor with one leg beneath him, an arm around the other.

He mindlessly nibbles on snacks and fruit.

He throws his head back and laughs too loud.

He dozes off in awkward positions.

He lets out little snores.

He groans, and he sighs, and he winks, and he walks, and he talks, and he complains, and he pretends to be annoyed, upset, angry, amused. 

And he always hovers just out of Kiyoomi’s reach.

ｘ

Miya Atsumu takes up a lot of space, and not just the metaphorical physical space Kiyoomi had observed so diligently. Miya Atsumu had begun to pour into his figurative mental space. 

It was miniscule at first, the same way anyone becomes knowledgeable in a mind, but soon he was filling it, taking it over, laying complete claim to it. A trickle through a crack becoming the bursting of a dam.

The information of each individual Kiyoomi knows and has known is neatly stacked, filed, and folded in their respective areas of Kiyoomi’s knowledge.

Atsumu refused this. Refused to be placed in a stack, couldn’t be filed, and was too bulky and awkward to be folded. Instead he had started sitting atop the cabinet, ankles rhythmically thump, thump, thumping against the hollow metal. Eventually he had become restless, and like the reality of Atsumu, didn’t stay put for long. Now he would rifle through papers, show up in unrelated thoughts and demand all of Kiyoomi’s attention.

If humans were sounds, Kiyoomi feels he is the tinkling of a bell or the shattering of glass. Atsumu is a dizzying cacophony of sounds, echoes of laughter and squeals of delight, bouncing endlessly through night air.

He is boundless.

ｘ

“My shower stopped working, I need to rinse out my conditioner,” Kiyoomi feels his finger tugging at the material of his towel, toying with it until a string comes loose, standing on the threshold of Atsumu’s apartment door one defining day.

Atsumu opens the door quickly, “Yeah course, this way.”

Kiyoomi observes the vague familiarity of the apartment, it is one floor up from his own and on the opposite side of the hall, so everything is flipped. It is a mirror of his own and, like deja vu, holds a disorientating sense of being both known and unknown.

Atsumu opens the door to the bathroom, flicking on the light, hesitating. “It’s clean, I haven’t used it today. Are you okay? Is there anything else I can do?” He seems on edge.

Kiyoomi shakes his head gently, “No. I'll be fine. Thank you.”

Atsumu bows slightly, a furrow between his eyes, “Alright, gimme a shout if ya need anything.” He eyes the little wicker basket in Kiyoomi’s hand. “I’ll be in the kitchen.” He leaves and the click of the door seems to echo behind him.

Kiyoomi inhales the air around him, it’s fresh, with an undertone of bleach, soap, and something like sugar. He looks at the sink. Atsumu’s singular toothbrush sits with his toothpaste in a little plastic tooth-shaped holder. He smiles at this. Beside it is an antibacterial hand soap targeted towards children, scented like fizzy cola bottle jellies. Kiyoomi feels oddly at ease despite his predicament. He closes his eyes and lets all the Atsumu of the bathroom sink into him, coating and encasing him, before turning on the shower to wash it all off again.

After, he finds Atsumu in the kitchen staring into a cupboard as the kettle boils beside him. 

He hadn’t known what to expect of Atsumu’s home. He hadn’t had reason to think about it before, didn’t know why. He hadn’t known what to expect but all the same, seeing it, he couldn’t think how this isn’t exactly what it should be. 

It is a monument to the feeling of home. It is plastered with him. It makes so much sense, that anything else couldn’t even be considered. 

The walls are the standard off-white of their apartments with small black tiles behind the stove but this is where the similarities seem to end. His kettle is a bright retro red, the toaster a pale blue, and various other objects sit carefully scattered around the room in a variety of colours; yellow, green, purple, pink, orange, teal. On the wall hangs a blown up photograph of him and his brother, no more than eight, grinning as they ate cake batter, or failed to by the messes on their faces. On the island sits a set of salt and pepper shakers in the shape of two little foxes, one sitting one sleeping, and a small, smiling onigiri takes centre stage. 

Atsumu seems to have simply collected that which he wanted, letting things fall into place in perfect harmony with himself. Conversely, Kiyoomi had curated a collection of perfectly corresponding items; all but that one tacky mug. 

Once again, Kiyoomi is overwhelmed with the sense of difference between them. In many ways he thinks that Atsumu is an antithesis to himself. He feels that he is closer to the antibacterial alcohol he uses on everything, while Atsumu is like oil, slick and lingering, sticking and affecting anything he comes close to contact with.

“Thanks.” Kiyoomi says, and watches the little twitch of Atsumu’s shoulders.

“Shit Omi-kun, ya frightened me. I thought ya’d be longer.” He replies, turning to look over his shoulder, the switch on the kettle flicking off as steam rises in the air.

“As I said, I only had to wash out my conditioner. Thank you again,” he begins to leave when Atsumu calls him back.

“I was gonna make tea or coffee, since you always make them for me, granted, ya have a far better selection, and a coffee grinder, and an actual espresso machine but… If you don’t have plans...” He trails off and glances back to the cupboard.

Kiyoomi considers this, considers Atsumu, considers the sticky air around him.

“I don’t have plans,” the answer slips out of his lips so easily despite the lie that it is. While he may not have had anything particularly meaningful planned, he did have things he hoped to finish. But Atsumu’s presence was becoming far too comfortable, and the heat of it made him feel like a lazy cat basking in sunlight, or the hearth of a fire. 

Atsumu hums and pulls out two mugs, one that looks like another tacky souvenir from the collection he had told him about, the other is black with silver floral detailing. “Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee please,” Kiyoomi answers, “just black is fine.” 

Atsumu had bent down to a lower cupboard that Kiyoomi couldn’t see, he straightens up now, looking from him to the carton in his hand.

“Ya sure? I have oat milk.” He replies.

ｘ

Kiyoomi eventually finds that he has begun to visit Atsumu’s home just as much as he visited his. 

He tells himself it’s because there is now a small, rectangular space in Atsumu’s fridge occupied by the oat milk that only he drinks, and he couldn't let Atsumu’s money go to waste, even when he knows he’d had to buy another, and another, and another to replace the first. 

He tells himself it isn’t because being surrounded by the old Volleyball Monthly magazines, scattered pictures and embroidered cushions emit a feeling of home, of comfort, of warmth. 

He tells himself it isn’t because Atsumu is painted on and imbued into every single surface there, lining every inch and corner of it.

Today, Atsumu places the same black mug he always gives Kiyoomi in front of him, holding yet another coloured mug of his own, Okinawa spread across it in gaudy red writing. 

Atsumu lands heavily beside him and reaches for the remote.

Something has bugged Kiyoomi ever since he'd first seen the object. He picks up his mug, and studies it once again, lifting it up so he can see the bottom. Like always, Atsumu’s eyes weigh heavy on him, leaving a presence on his skin. 

“Whatcha doing Omi-kun?”

“Looking.”

“For?”

Kiyoomi lowers the mug, and places it carefully, as if it would break the low wooden table in front of him that so often bore the abuse of Atsumu’s laziness.

“I thought you said all your mugs were,” he searches for the exact words and turn of phrase, “‘a mess of souvenirs and tacky trinkets.’' These had been eloquent words for Atsumu, born of a determination to expand his vocabulary simply to spite his brother. Those words inhabited their own place in the museum now dedicated to Atsumu in Kiyoomi’s brain. He had found it endearing at the time, found them and the mouth they had poured from endearing.

“All _my_ mugs are yes,” Atsumu replies slowly, “but that’s your mug, so it had to embody ‘Omi’. Just like I’ve separate cutlery for ya, that yours.” He nods at the mug, a slightly confused yet set look to his eyes.

Kiyoomi continues to watch the mug, what he had believed was an extension of Atsumu, was actually an extension of him, and he almost didn’t like it. 

He wanted it to be Atsumu. 

At what point had the many presences of Miya Atsumu become so familiar, so comfortable, so sought?

It’s strange now, this feeling of him in Atsumu’s home. Kiyoomi had become so accustomed to Atsumu filling his life, he hadn’t taken time to consider the possibility of it being reciprocated even minutely.

But it is. He has his own space in Atsumu’s fridge, on the bottom shelf of the fridge door. He has a seat he always sits in and a cushion he always hugs to himself. It's in the small bottle of hand sanitizers Atsumu has taken to carrying, the time he takes to consider him. It's in the mug he had bought just for him, and apparently cutlery too. He wonders if Atsumu had taken these many considerations, this purposeful reduction of himself, just to make room for Kiyoomi in his home; in his life?

Just like Atsumu took up place in his apartment, mind and life, it seemed that Atsumu had specifically made space for him in his. 

Kiyoomi straightens up, and all the eyes of all the Atsumus living in the apartment seem to follow him as he rises to his feet.

“Whatcha do-”

“Stand up.” It isn’t a demand, it isn’t a question, it isn’t a plea.

Atsumu’s mouth opens and closes again, he places his own mug on one of the many stolen mismatched Onigiri Miya coasters, and does as he was told.

Sakusa Kiyoomi believed he knew how things were supposed to be and the space they took up, he hadn’t left room for something he couldn’t expect. And so now there is only impulse. 

“I have my own cutlery?”

“Well yeah,” Atsumu shifts his weight from foot to foot, eyes flitting. “I figured that’s whatcha woulda wanted, so I bought new ones along with yer mug.” He shrugs weakly and nods towards the object, “I wanted ya ta feel comfortable here, if ya ever did come. And ya did so...”

Kiyoomi watches him, imagines the nervous energy radiating in pulsing waves around him; if his apartment didn’t already resonate with his presence, it would now. 

He steps slowly towards him, letting the energy surround and envelop him, until he almost has to look down to maintain eye contact. He raises his hand slowly until it hovers just by Atsumu’s cheek, watching him for any hint of discomfort. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he instructs. Atsumu nods, his pupils wide, almost swallowing his irises; wide and helpless and containing so much that Kiyoomi can’t see, can’t hold, can’t read.

He lets his hand drift higher, and begins to trail his fingertips against his temple, testing the solidity, checking the barriers, feeling the boundaries of what is Miya Atsumu and what is not. He lets them drift down his cheek, across his jawline, watching the way his skin meets Atsumu’s, how he isn’t being taken over. Instead, they are two entities coexisting, and nothing else matters but the space between them and the area they occupy. He lets his thumb move to gently trace the bottom of his lip.

Atsumu shivers and Kiyoomi jerks his hand back. Shaking his head, Atsumu quickly reaches out, checks for permission, and pulls his hand back to his cheek, his own hand laying on top of it and nods, his burning eyes transfixed, before letting his hand drop again.

Kiyoomi’s thumb returns to the plumpness of his lip again, and he presses slightly, asking to be let in. Atsumu obliges, his mouth parting, barely daring to breathe as Kiyoomi’s thumb slides in.

He should flinch, he should be disgusted by the hot, wet saliva beginning to cling to the crevices of his skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel it. 

This, _this_ , is Atsumu, not the delusions of ghosts, ideas of after images, or translucent hauntings. He is not an incorporeal presence; he is a man and he is real and physical and so enticing to touch.

He pushes slightly on the other man’s tongue, before letting it slide back out, thumb grazing against his bottom teeth. He raises his other hand, letting them both hover just over Atsumu’s cheeks, imperceptibly touching each side, before making complete contact again, and gliding down his neck. His right hand works without thought, pushing boundaries as it snakes around his throat, applying the slightest pressure there. Kiyoomi’s body tenses, something tightening in his abdomen as he watches Atsumu’s eyes flash and jaw clench.

A sound emits from Atsumu’s throat, filling Kiyoomi’s ears, redefining the space around them and everything Kiyoomi had taught himself to know. Atsumu still didn’t dare to move.

He lets his hands continue, drifting over the other man's shoulders, biceps, elbows, forearms, over his chest, along his waist, and finally to the hem of his t-shirt, balling the material in his fist and swallowing loudly. 

Atsumu had watched every movement, every twitch of muscle, every eye flicker. His own body feeling like a vessel composed entirely of potential energy. Within it, the sparks and chemical reactions fling themselves against each other, clashing and melding. His body thrums and his knees ache. He feels like the teetering of a top at the edge of a cliff.

“Touch me,” Kiyoomi asks, looking him directly in the eye, and Atsumu has wanted this for so long, has imagined the feel of Kiyoomi’s skin against his, the weight of his body above him, the heat radiating from below him. 

“Are you sure?” Atsumu asks. 

Kiyoomi bites his lip and nods without hesitation. He wanted it, wants it still. He had imagined so many times being surrounded by Atsumu when all he wanted was to be pressed against him, the space between them null, their bodies intertwined. 

All that space he claimed had been occupied with the essence of Atsumu were just reminders of all the places he didn’t take up. They were delusions, oases of a desperate man. 

That night they make sure no area, no skin, no space is left undiscovered, unconquered, untouched. The tender touches change to fevered, desperate kisses, to rough dragging and rushed tugging. Kiyoomi falls onto Atsumu’s bed, surrounded by the scent of lavender and Atsumu as he wraps his legs around the other man's body. He digs his nails into his back trying to pull them as close together as possible as Atsumu pushes himself inside. Each thrust connects and separates them again and again, until they collapse on top of each other, curling into an embrace; sweat intermingling, words indecipherable, a vague haziness in the lines that separate and define them.

He never wants to not know what it’s like to be completely immersed in Miya Atsumu again.

**Author's Note:**

> a million thank yous to K (de_sociate on [twitter](https://twitter.com/de_sociate) and [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/de_sociate/pseuds/de_sociate)) for being my beta with this piece 💕💕
> 
> feel free to let me know your thoughts here or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ohmiyamy/status/1355994739074592776?s=20)


End file.
